


Four for a Boy

by DreamingPagan



Series: Four For a Boy Verse [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: And James is a Deer in the Headlights, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, In Which Miranda is Brilliant and Machiavellian, In Which There is a Sprat and it Fixes Everything, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7429011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they flee London, none of them realize that Miranda is pregnant, and when she realizes, she will stop at nothing to have her family back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andrea_deer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [andrea_deer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



For the first two months, she dismisses it as stress.

Stranger things have happened. That she misses her courses two months in a row must surely be down to her grief and anger and the sheer anxiety that comes with packing up the remains of her life and fleeing England with James. After all - she has been married to Thomas for years now. Surely, if she were going to conceive, it would have happened by now, and besides, she’s no young thing of eighteen - she’s thirty and one, old to be having children, especially for the first time. She tells herself that even when the morning sickness starts - even wonders if she might not have contracted a tropical disease. She’s new to the island, and it would not be surprising, not with James living in the same house and sick as a dog within a week after they arrive, vomiting and sweating until she fears he too will be taken from her. It does not happen, though - he recovers, and she wakes up for the third week in a row, voids the contents of her stomach into the privy, and finally gives in to James’ insistence on calling for a doctor. Two hours later, the doctor leaves and she emerges from their bedroom with a look on her face that is equal parts shock and fear and a sort of confused joy, her stomach now turning over for a very different reason.

“Well?” James demands. “What’s wrong? Miranda - what did he -?”

“Nothing is wrong,” she says, her voice strange even to her own ears. “I’ll be fine.”

“Bullshit. Something is not right. You’ve been ill every morning since we’ve arrived. Something must be wrong, or you wouldn’t be -”

The look of confusion and worry on his face oddly brings a smile to hers, and her fondness for him washes over her suddenly, touched at his concern and now oddly giddy at being able to give him the news. He stops, clearly confused.

“James,” she interrupts him “I’m not ill. I’m with child,” she says, and watches his expression change entirely, from outright worry to shock, quickly followed by a look like a deer caught unawares by a hunter.

“With -?” He starts, and then his knees seem to give out on him. He stumbles backwards, his knees hitting the nearest chair and he sits heavily. He looks up at her, and she can’t help but give him a wry grin. “How far -?” He asks, suddenly breathless, and she shrugs.

“Difficult to say,” she answers. “As much as three months or as few as two.”

James looks utterly thunderstruck, and she can see him doing the mental math.

“Three months,” he repeats. “But that would mean -”

“That this could be Thomas’s child,” she finishes quietly. “Or yours. There will be no way of knowing, not for another six or seven months, at least.”

“My God,” James breathes, and looks at her, something both joyful and lost in his expression. “Christ.” He looks around their small cottage, visibly taking stock of everything that is going to have to be moved or changed if there is to be a small person sharing space with them, and swallows.

“Our plans will have to change,” he says hoarsely, still looking around him. He rubs one hand over his beard, the other gripping the arm of the chair. “I can’t just leave you here to -”

To go pirating. She had known from the get-go what James intended once they reached the island - had known from the moment Peter had suggested going to Paris and James had clenched his teeth, eyes on fire with anger to match her own, and refused. He intended to go on the account - to do as much damage to England as it had done to them. To make them fear him. To make them so afraid of Nassau and her pirate captains that they would be willing to do anything to make their shipping safe again, up to and including releasing Thomas. Up until a moment ago, he had still intended to do so. She knows he had found a crew a few days before, when he was still recovering from his bout of illness, a look like grim death on his face when he’d gone out and quiet, determined satisfaction when he came back, telling her he had achieved his goal. He had been in the process of refitting and coming to an agreement with the crew when he had returned to the cottage unexpectedly, found her ill, and insisted on the doctor’s visit that had turned everything on its head. And now -

Now everything has changed, and nothing, all at the same time. She is having a child - possibly Thomas’s child. They still need Thomas back - more now than ever, in all truth, and as the thought passes through her head, it brings with it an idea at once so terrible and so brilliant that it catches her breath in her throat.

“The plan,” she tells him slowly, running the idea over in her head, looking for obvious flaws, “is exactly the same, but with one small difference.” She turns, looking for quill and paper, and found them, as well as the small bottle of ink they had managed to bring from London. She uncaps it, and he stares.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, clearly startled by her reaction. “You can’t stay here alone, not if you’re -” He gestures to her still-flat stomach.

“I most certainly can,” she refutes him calmly, her quill pen scratching away at the parchment. “You are going to go to sea, as planned. You will establish yourself, earn your men’s trust and goodwill, as planned.”

“What are you doing?” James asks, rising from the chair to look over her shoulder. He skims the letter she has written, and she can see the moment when he spots Thomas’ name at the top. His voice, when he speaks, is incredulous, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You’re writing to him?”

“As he is possibly about to be a father, yes,” she answers.

“I hardly think they’re likely to allow him to receive mail there,” he says, a hint of something both sorrowful and gentle in his voice, as if he believes that she has in some way lost her wits.

“Nevertheless,” she answers, continuing to write.

“What good could it do to tell him? To taunt him with a child he can’t see -”

“I’m not taunting anyone,” she says calmly. “Any news addressed to Thomas will inevitably make its way to Alfred instead.” Her tone changes, her voice hardening. “He will want this child, James. He might hate Thomas - might even want him dead, but he will never, ever willingly allow a child of Thomas’ blood to be raised outside of his control, for fear that child will one day learn of its birthright and create a scandal by demanding it. He will be willing to negotiate - willing to take risks.”

James face goes more and more white as she speaks, and he stares at her now in unabashed horror.

“You would offer up Thomas’ child -”

The suggestion sends anger sweeping through her, hot and sudden, and she drops the quill and stands, slowly, rage driving her to her feet, her hands held completely straight at her sides, suddenly shaking with fury.

“ _Never_ ,” she hisses. “He will have my child over my dead body, and yours too if it comes to that. He will never so much as lay eyes on our son or daughter.” Her voice is a foreign thing, something that does not belong to her, low and dangerous, and James seems to realize that he has misconstrued. He steps back, eyes fixed on her, both startled and frightened at what he sees.

“Miranda - I -” He starts, and she closes her eyes and waves a hand, silently dismissing the apology on his lips.

“No,” she says, letting out her breath, allowing her hands to curl slightly again and the tension to bleed out of her posture. She opens her eyes again, the frightening thing within her receding again. “No. I haven’t explained.” He lets out a quick breath, relief flashing over his face.

“What, then?” he asks, his eyes still fixed on her, baffled. “Why would you -?” He stops, and she can see the moment when her plan becomes obvious to him. He looks at her suddenly with absolute wonder, understanding causing his mouth to drop open a little way. “You intend to make him come in person,” he says. “To fetch his grandchild and -”

“And give Thomas back to us,” she finishes, her voice low and fierce. “Yes. If he can be persuaded to remove Thomas from Bethlem -”

She can hear James’ breath catch in his throat and sees hope kindle in his green eyes. Here, at last, is a plan that won’t take years to accomplish. Here is something he can do now - a way to help Thomas that doesn’t involve becoming a monster.

“We can intercept him,” he breathes. “We’ll need to know the name of his ship - the route they sail on, when, how many hands, how many guns,” he starts, and Miranda nods.

“I still have a few contacts left in London,” she says. “I will need to write several letters, some to my contacts and some to those I can be sure will share my correspondence with Alfred. There can be no doubt in his mind that the child is Thomas’s. He will need to be convinced.” James nods his understanding, his gaze now focused away from her, his eyes narrowed as he works on the details of their subterfuge.

“We’ll need someone to tell us if Thomas is being moved. If Alfred tries to deceive us or leave him there -”

“Thomas should be warned,” Miranda agrees. “He must know that we haven't abandoned him.”

James nods, and when he looks at her again, his gaze is determined, eyes clear and brighter than she has seen them since Thomas was taken from them.

“Yes. Let him know I’m coming for him.”

*************************************  
She sends her letter the very next day, to an acquaintance in London whom she would not truly trust as far as she can spit, but whom she knows will take her letter straight to Alfred, rather than to Thomas as she instructs. Another goes, on a different ship, to her former lady’s maid, a woman whom she has known since she was newly wed and who knows Miranda possibly better than Miranda does herself, with instructions to deliver it to Thomas by whatever means necessary. Her wording is necessarily vague, but she hopes that Thomas will divine its meaning and use it to sustain himself until she and James can put an end to his imprisonment.

The months seem to crawl past. Miranda’s ankles swell. She continues to throw up in the mornings, and her dresses begin to require alteration, and still she does what she can to make their house seem more like a home. She gardens, reclaiming the soil inch by inch, replacing weeds with vegetables and just a few small flowers here and there in defiance of the loss of all the beautiful things she had surrounded herself with in London. James dusts off his father’s carpentry skills, near forgotten, and knocks together a crib in between his trips. He is settling in as a captain, slowly but surely. He comes back after his first run with a crescent-moon tattoo on one arm that he tells her stings like anything and an earring that is apparently meant to augment his vision at sea. She makes a point of lavishing attention on his injuries (a slash to the opposite arm from the tattoo and a burn mark from a mishap with a gun). His eyes are haunted somehow, and she does what she can to assure him that he had no choice. If they want Thomas back, this must happen. They must have a ship, and a crew loyal to James, and that entails taking prizes.

“Only a few more months,” she tells him soothingly, and he stares, green eyes fixed not on her but on the wall behind her as she washes the injured areas.

“Some of the men on that ship were no more than eighteen or nineteen - barely more than children,” he murmurs. “Christ, Miranda - what in the hell am I doing?”

“What is necessary,” she answers, and it’s no comfort. He looks at her, and she cannot speak, only gather him to her, his head resting against her shoulder as his shoulders shake and he lets out a small sob. This cannot last more than a few months. Please, dear God, it cannot, because she cannot let him keep doing this to himself for any longer than that - cannot keep asking him to sacrifice heart and soul in the name of the man they both love. She doesn’t have the stomach for it - still less with the little one on the way.  
***********************************************************  
The expected response from Alfred reaches them three months after the hatching of her scheme, and it is all Miranda can do not to crumple it up in one fist and throw it into the fire when she reads it. It is horrible - condescending, smugly arrogant and coldly demanding - and it brings a vicious smile to her face. Alfred has taken the bait. He is demanding that the child be turned over to him, just as she had expected, and she sits down at her writing desk, her belly bumping the edge as she leans over to write a response - an equally frigid, equally coldly calculating piece of correspondence that turns her stomach even as she writes it, demanding to know what Lord Ashbourne is willing to give her in return for her only child and suggesting that she would be willing to negotiate for the right price. She trusts that Alfred will know of what, or rather whom, she speaks, and she sends the letter with a prayer, clasping James’ hand as she does so. He looks equally terrified and hopeful, his green eyes a sea of emotion at the thought of what they are about to do.

Not a month later, Miranda receives word that Thomas has been seen being loaded into a carriage and taken to the Earl’s residence. The letter is frustratingly vague as to his condition, but she breathes a silent thanks nonetheless, relieved beyond measure that her husband is now safely out of Bedlam, if not yet free entirely. She receives a second letter hard on the heels of the first, this one from Alfred, confirming the terms of their deal, and another, unsigned, which makes James stare, a strange expression on his face.

“Alfred Hamilton will be sailing to Charles Town aboard the _Maria Aleyne_ on June the 5th. You may wish to know that his cargo includes his son, Lord Thomas Hamilton.” He reads it aloud, and then stares at the writing, his fingers tracing over the stylized H in Hamilton. “I suppose that’s as close to an apology as I’m ever likely to get,” he says roughly.

“It seems the Admiral has had a change of heart,” Miranda agrees.

“If he thinks this is going to save Alfred’s miserable life when I find him -” James starts, and she shakes her head.

“No. I’m sure he knows better. This ends now, for all our sakes. I won’t spend the rest of our lives waiting for Alfred to come and tear everything down around us again. He cannot -”

The baby kicks, and she winces.

“Apparently your son agrees with me,” she says, at James’ look of concern.

“I thought you weren’t certain?” He asks, one eyebrow cocked.

“He’s yours when he’s being argumentative,” she retorts, and one corner of his mouth pulls upward.

“Thomas would be playing innocent right now,” he says. “As if he’s not every bit as stubborn and contrary.”

“Stubborn and contrary, yes. Prone to punching people, no,” she retorts, and James shakes his head, and abruptly the mood between them changes. He looks at her, and she lays a hand on his chest.

“Bring him back to us, James,” she charges, and he nods.

“I’ll be back in a month,” he tells her. “We’ll take the ship as it approaches Charles Town. If we hit her right -”

“You won’t be hitting anything,” Miranda says severely. “Thomas is aboard that ship.” He sighs.

“It’s a figure of speech,” he tells her. “I’ll bring him back safely, Miranda, I swear it.”

She reaches forward and grasps the back of his neck, bringing him down to her for a kiss and then releases him.

“Be careful,” she says firmly. “I refuse to lose you too.” He nods, and then lowers his head to kiss her again, the gesture equal parts comfort and sorrow that turns into a biting, desperate thing, as if he is attempting to leave her with the lingering memory of his mouth on hers to tide her over until he returns.

“I’ll see you in a month. This will be over in a month,” he says, and then he’s away, heading out the door to go and retrieve their lover.


	2. Chapter 2

The _Maria Aleyne_ is exactly where Hennessey said she would be.

 James says a silent prayer when he spots the ship on the horizon and sees her name. His mentor’s words have torn at him since the moment he heard them spilling forth from Hennessey’s mouth, and it’s reassuring to find that the man who effectively made him the man he is does not, in fact, hate him. It soothes something in him, makes it easier to think past the raging torrent of anger that courses through him when he imagines Alfred Hamilton ensconced below with Thomas locked away, still firmly under his father’s boot heel.

She makes to run. Of course she does - there was never any way he was going to fire a shot across her bow and watch her strike her colors. Alfred would never make it that easy. In a way, he’s glad of it. This will be a good fight, the first good one he’s had since leaving the Navy, fought for a good reason rather than for gold and greed.

 “Chain shot - aim for her sails,” James barks. “Not a single shot below deck, or so help me God I’ll kill you myself!”

 The gunners do their jobs, with James pacing back and forth across the decks, checking their angles and watching with a sense of grim satisfaction as the other ship’s masts begin to splinter and fall to the deck, leaving her helpless, her sails in tatters.

“Come about!” he shouts, feeling the wild thrill of the chase thrumming through him. “Prepare to board!”

It takes an hour to bring the two ships together, and by the time that they arrive, the other crew has had a chance to brace themselves for a fight. The deck runs red with blood under James’ feet, and he ignores it, heading straight below-decks. He has one mission - one thought on his mind, and so it’s almost a surprise when he finds Alfred Hamilton in one of the port-side cabins, his cruel blue eyes that are so much like Thomas’s in shade and so little alike in warmth staring at James with horror.

“You!” He backs away, and James smiles a shark’s smile at the thought of what he must look like to his lover’s father.

“Where is Thomas?” he demands, and Alfred falls to his knees.

"He’s here - he’s on board. If you bring him to me, I will reinstate him as my heir, I swear it. I’ll sign over everything - everything!”

“You have ten seconds to answer my question. Where. Is. Thomas?” The demand is accompanied by the unsheathing of his sword, and Alfred cringes.

“He’s here, I tell you - he’s in the hold, in one of the storage -”

He hears no more. In the hold. Thomas is being kept in the _fucking hold_ with the rats, like livestock, stuck in the dark even now, locked away and probably _terrified_. He registers only dimly his hand reaching out, his sword striking Alfred in the face, pommel first, and after that everything is a blur until he finds himself standing over Alfred’s body, breathing hard, the older man’s blood spattered everywhere, soaking into his clothing and covering his face and hands. He looks down, and only just barely resists the urge to be sick. He’s lost control before. This isn’t the first time that he’s beaten someone, but it’s the first time he’s found himself facing a corpse afterward, and the part of him that is still James McGraw and not the monster called Flint quails, bile rising in his throat. He swallows hard, stumbling backward, hitting a barrel with the backs of his knees. He sits down hard and stays there, shaking, for several moments, the smell of blood growing stronger the more of it leaks out of Alfred’s still form. The sword drops out of his grasp, his suddenly numb fingers releasing it to clang against the deck, and a small sob escapes him. There is no coming back from this. Whatever faith Hennessey still had in him, he was wrong - so utterly wrong. This is not the justified killing of a man who posed a threat to James and everyone he loves. This is butchery, plain and simple, and he -

He still has to find Thomas. He cannot afford this breakdown now - not now when the fighting is still raging above and he has a quickly closing window of opportunity to find and secure him against the bloodlust of a group of men turned loose. He swallows, hard, and stands, the shaking in his limbs continuing for a few seconds until he manages to pull himself back together. He will deal with his guilt and horror later. Thomas needs him, and James will not fail him now. He looks downward at his ruined shirt and peels it off, wiping his face and arms with it, removing the worst of the blood, and then throwing it to the side, covering Alfred’s equally ruined face.  He pulls on one of the fine linen shirts that he finds among Alfred’s things and tucks it in under his belt, silently vowing to burn the shirt later and change into one of his own the moment he has the chance. He can’t face Thomas covered in blood, though, so it will have to do for now. He moves along quickly, heading for the hold, and arrives to find it still dark, still quiet save for the slowly dying sounds of battle above him. He listens, hoping to hear something, anything that will tell him Thomas’ location among the stacks of loaded crates and barrels.

“Thomas?” He chances calling out, the sound of his voice partially muffled by the sound of a gun going off above him, and is rewarded by the softer noise of something shifting - a sort of scrabbling sound as if someone is trying to get to their feet or move away from something in a hurry.  He moves toward the sound and finds a door blocking off a portion of the hold. It’s the work of only a few seconds to bash the lock apart and then he opens the door and immediately ducks as a fist swings at his head.  He catches sight of a familiar blond head as he dodges a second blow, and backs away, holding up both hands, palms outward.

“Thomas,” he barks, “Thomas, it’s me! It’s James.”

Thomas stares - lowers his fists, and James nearly weeps at the sight of his face, too thin and pasty with lack of sunlight, covered in a blond beard that seems to have been allowed to accumulate over the space of a few weeks, but still recognizable as belonging to the man he loves.

“James?” Thomas’ voice is thin and hesitant, and the look in his blue eyes causes James’ stomach to twist with the sheer disbelief he finds there.  “You’re - that’s really you?”

He nods, unable to speak past the lump in his throat, and Thomas reaches out with one hand to touch him as if to confirm that he’s there.  His hand lands on James’ shoulder, and he takes a shaky breath, as if surprised to find that James is not actually a phantom.  

“I came to -” James starts, and Thomas gives a laugh that’s half disbelief and half indescribable joy and nearly flings himself at James, wrapping both arms around him and kissing him soundly, holding on tighter than James would have believed possible, as terribly weak as he looks. 

“ _James_ ,” he breathes against James’ lips, and the relief in his voice is enough to undo whatever plans James had of explaining the situation. Instead, he returns the embrace, gripping Thomas’ back with a ferocity that startles even him, feeling Thomas’ breath shudder and catch at the contact. His hands clench tighter around James as a ragged sob works its way out of his throat and James simply holds onto him, murmuring reassurances and nonsense words into his lover’s shoulder even as tears leak out of his own eyes.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m here. It’s done. You’re safe.” He rubs one hand up and down the thin back, allowing the other to wrap around the back of Thomas’ head and run over hair that too obviously hasn’t been washed any time recently. He can feel Thomas’ shaking slowly subside, his breath still hitching now and again as he attempts to pull himself together.

“You came,” Thomas manages to choke out at last. “Thank God,” he says fervently, and James nods again.

“Yes,” he says. “Dear Christ, Thomas, you look -” His voice catches, and he swallows hard, trying not to continue weeping.  “We haven’t much time,” he tells him, and Thomas nods and pulls away.  His face is blotchy with crying, still, his eyes slightly red, and he frowns as he looks at James, registering the difference in him.  

“You’ve cut your hair,” he says, and James gives a huff of laughter.

“I arrive on a pirate ship to rescue you, and that’s what you’re concerned about?” he asks. Thomas looks startled.

“A pirate ship?” he asks. “James - what have you -?”

“I’ll explain once we’re away,” James urges.  “You’re not injured, are you?”

Thomas shakes his head, and James breathes a sigh of relief.

“Good. Stay close. The men are likely to be in the mood for violence for several hours. I’d prefer to settle you safely in my cabin before any of them get any ideas.”

“James,” Thomas starts, “my father is aboard. We have to -”

James turns, guilt churning in his stomach, and the look on his face must tell Thomas all he needs to know, because he stops.  

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” he asks, his voice oddly even, and James nods, hands working at his sides as he attempts to find the words to say what has happened to Alfred Hamilton.

“He told me - where you were, what he had done with you, and I - I’m sorry,” he starts. “I shouldn’t have -”

He’s utterly taken aback when Thomas shakes his head, taking a step forward to press a finger against James’ mouth.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, a hard edge to his voice that James has seldom ever heard there before. “Not for that. I’ll thank you properly for ending this nightmare later.” There’s an energy in Thomas’ step as he moves toward the door, and James takes heart to see that his lover appears to be both mentally sound and eager to leave. 

They emerge on deck to find that the fighting is over. The men are in the process of tying up the surviving crew of the Maria Aleyne, and Gates raises his eyebrows at James when he spots Thomas behind him.

“Another prisoner?” he questions, and James shakes his head.

“No. He’ll be joining us for the trip back to Nassau.”

“You intend to hold him for ransom, then,” Gates says, and James shakes his head again.

Gates squints at him, and then frowns.

“You’ve got blood in your hair,” he comments. “I didn’t see you on deck during the fighting, though. What the bloody hell happened down there?”

Thomas startles, looking at James’ hair, and James flinches, seeing the look of both concern and understanding flash across Thomas’ face.

“I’ll explain later,” he says. “For now, you can consider this man my guest. He’ll be staying with me until we reach Nassau.”  He starts to move toward his cabin, and Gates steps in front of him.

“The crew,” he says, with the air of a man who has grown used to explaining things patiently, “will want an explanation, especially since from what I’ve seen, this ship isn’t carrying much of value, despite what was promised at the outset of this chase. Care to give us one?”

James glares, and starts to open his mouth to tell Gates off, but Thomas beats him to the punch, stepping forward to offer Gates his hand.

“You are the quartermaster, I take it,” he said. Gates nodded, reaching out to take the offered hand almost automatically and giving it a quick shake.

“Hal Gates, aye. Care to tell us who the hell you are?”

“Certainly. I’m the man who’s going to make you a small fortune in the next few months.”

“Yes? And how’s that, exactly?”

Thomas smiles.

“The Lord Proprietor of the Bahama islands was aboard this ship,” he says, his voice betraying his distaste at the thought of Alfred. “Your Captain assures me that he is currently lying dead below. His death is going to significantly impact the plans of a number of people - important people, who will be shifting their assets to protect themselves. I can tell you who those people are, which ships to be on the lookout for, and which ones can be hit without incurring reprisals.”

James looks at him, startled and trying not to show it, and Thomas smiles grimly.

“There’s a reason my father felt I was too dangerous to leave at large,” he says.  Gates, for his part, looks between them, both eyebrows raised as high as they would go, and then whistles lowly.

“If you’re telling the truth -” He starts, and James nods.

“Exactly. I told you this one was worth taking,” he said, and Gates nods in return.

“Aye. Welcome on board, Mister -?”

“Thomas. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gates.”

“If we’re done with introductions, I’d like to clean up and I imagine Mr. Barlow here would like to do the same,” James says, and Gates steps out of the way, allowing them to go on their way.

“Mr. Barlow?” Thomas questions, and James nods.

“It’s the name Miranda’s been going by since we left London,” he explains, and Thomas’ breath hitches.

“Miranda,” he murmurs. “How is she? I received your warning in Bethlem right before they moved me, but there was no news, and my father -”

They’ve reached James’ cabin now, and he ushers Thomas inside.  His lover stops talking long enough to take in the room, an expression that strongly resembles gratitude flashing over his face at the sight of the bed. It’s a hell of a step up from the hold, and James feels anger wash over him again at the thought of what Thomas has been through.

“It’s not much, but it’ll do until we can get back to Nassau,” he says, and Thomas nods.

“It’s - more than enough. Thank you, James. If you hadn't come, I don’t know if I would have -” He swallows, and lowers his head to stare at the floor. “Thank you,” he repeats, and James feels his stomach turn over, guilt rising up in him now that the urgency of the moment is gone. Thomas doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what James has done - doesn’t know the monster he faces, the monster that slaughtered his father not an hour earlier.

“Thomas -” James starts. “Christ, don’t thank me. Not for what I did. I -”

Thomas looks up, surprise flashing across his face.

“James - I already told you not to apologize. My father was a horrible man. He never would have -”

“He didn’t deserve to die like that,” James said, turning away from Thomas toward the door. “You don’t understand what I did. If you did, you -”

“I assume that it has something to do with why you’re covered in blood,” Thomas says, and James turns back.

“I -” he starts, and swallows hard. “I beat him to death. With my own two hands, I - he told me he’d stowed you in the hold like some kind of animal and I -” He clenches his fists, feeling the anger rising again at the very thought of it, and starts when Thomas’ hand touches his shoulder.

“James -” He starts, and James shakes his head.

“No. Don’t forgive me for it. You don’t understand - you can’t possibly understand -”

Thomas' hand tightens on his shoulder and pulls until he turns around to face him. Thomas’ blue eyes are suddenly fixed on James, his mouth a thin, tight line.

“Don’t tell me I don’t understand.” The tone in Thomas’ voice is foreign - hard, and angry. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand what made you do it. You’ve no idea what -” He cuts off, takes a deep breath. “You don’t know what it was like, in there,” he says, and his voice is shaking with fury now. “You’re not the one that woke up every morning for six months, manacled to the bloody wall, with fleas, and rats, and food that barely warrants the name, wondering what the _hell_ you’d ever done to deserve such punishment, and realizing that it was all down to Alfred _bloody_ Hamilton - all down to that piece of _absolute shit_ I called a father. You’ve never - you’ve never -” His voice breaks, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, his arms crossing across his body as if to ward off a chill. “You don’t know what he did,” he says, tears gathering unbidden in the corners of his eyes, and James reads the echo of his own anger in them. It’s sobering, and he stares at Thomas for a moment, frightened and somehow impossibly comforted at seeing something of his own darkness reflected back at him. He may be a monster, but he is not alone in this - in reveling in Alfred’s death, and he almost wants to go back and do it again at seeing what the man has done to Thomas, who has always been such a pacifist.

“You’re right,” James says. “I didn’t think - God, Thomas. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t come for you sooner.” Thomas shakes his head.

“It’s not your fault,” he says with a sigh, carding one hand through his hair. “You came as soon as you could. I just -” He takes another deep breath, this one catching a little on the way in, and sinks down to sit on the table. James joins him, sitting silently beside him as he stares at the floor, waiting for him to find the words to say what he needs to.

“I hated him,” Thomas says finally, his tone low, still filled with anger and grief and something else - possibly resignation. “God help me, I hated him for every second I spent in that place. Don’t ever apologize for what you did. He deserved that and more.”

James nods, feeling something in his chest unknot at the words. If Thomas can forgive him - can even condone his actions, surely he can forgive himself for what he’s done.

“Alright,” he agrees. “No more apologies.” Thomas looks up and gives him a small smile - more a lifting of one corner of his mouth, really, but it counts, and James is relieved to see it.

“Thank you,” he says, and James nods.

“You’re welcome.”

He looks at Thomas full-on, and Thomas seems to understand what he must be seeing, because he winces, one hand running through his hair again as if that will somehow make it less of a mess. His eyes move up and down as he does so, taking in James' clothing, which is a mess of blood and gunpowder from the waist down, with his hands and face showing smudges of the same. His hair is hanging untied and untidy with blood spattered in it, and he is suddenly conscious that he is still wearing Alfred’s shirt.

“We’re a pair of messes,” Thomas says, the suggestion of amusement edging out the boiling anger of the moment before, and James smiles wryly.

“I think I promised you the chance to clean up,” he says, and the whimper that leaves Thomas’ mouth is almost obscene, longing flashing through his eyes.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says. “ _Please_.”

James laughs, and they both turn to the task of cleaning themselves and each other up. James helps Thomas to shave and trim his shaggy, tangled hair. Thomas helps James to wash the blood out of his, and both of them pointedly avoid commenting on the scars they’ve each picked up over the past few months, settling for kissing each one instead in a silent gesture of both acceptance and apology. James lingers over the long welts on Thomas’ back, still red and raw in places, and Thomas allows it, silently taking comfort in the touch of James’ lips and the prickle of his beard against the sensitive skin. James, for his part, allows Thomas to fuss over the small scars left by the few engagements he’s been part of since leaving London and lets him run his fingers over the newly acquired tattoo on his right arm.

“It’s - lord, James. This had to have hurt,” he says, and James shrugs.

“Well, it didn’t feel good, if that’s what you’re asking,” he acknowledges. “It’s a tradition in Nassau, apparently. First time over the side is marked by a tattoo provided you survive.”

“You did mention to them that it wasn’t exactly your first fight?” Thomas inquires, and James snorts.

“I find it’s best not to mention killing pirates when you’re standing on a ship full of them,” he answers, and Thomas pulls a face.

“No - I don’t suppose that would have gone over well,” he answers.  He picks up the shirt that James has laid out for him and pulls it on, and James takes a second to appreciate how much more like himself Thomas looks now, clean shaven and wearing the clothing that Miranda had had made for him before this trip. There’s a long way to go yet before he’ll be fully recovered, but it’s a start, and a good one. Finally, James takes one final look in the scrap of mirror he’s managed to acquire, and squares his shoulders.

“The men will be expecting me on deck before long,” he says. “Will you be alright here on your own?”

Thomas nods.

“Yes. I’ll be fine.”

James turns to leave, and Thomas clears his throat.

“James - wait.” James turns back, surprised.

“James - I know I was not - that is -” Thomas takes a deep breath. “You’re not a monster, James. I know your anger frightens you, but -”

James shakes his head.

“No. You’re right. Alfred deserved what he got.”

“Regardless - I shouldn’t have dismissed your concerns. If you want to talk about it -”

James shakes his head again. He doesn’t actually want to discuss this - not now, with the savage thing in him safely locked away where it should be, the illusion that he can keep it under control descending over him again. He’ll have to face it eventually - have to excise the demon that seems to have taken hold of him today, because he’ll be damned if he’ll be coward enough not to address it before it can happen again but for right now, Thomas looks exhausted, and he feels much the same.

“Not right now,” he tells Thomas. “Get some rest. We’ll be getting underway shortly. Once we’re away, we’ll have the time.”

Thomas nods.

“You never did answer my question about Miranda, you know,” he says, and James smiles.

“Get some sleep. Trust me - you’re going to need it.”

He ducks out of the cabin, leaving Thomas to stare at him in confusion, a grin widening on his face as he walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

They arrive in Nassau two weeks later.

Thomas is overwhelmed, at first, with the lush greenery of the island and the sheer life buzzing in every corner of it. He had expected - well, he isn’t sure what he expected when James had described the place, but the description had not done it justice, not truly. He moves to the railing of the ship, watching the crew lower a launch, and marvels at the truly beautiful place that he sees before him, as far removed from London as it is possible to be.

“It’s quite the sight, isn’t it?” James says beside him, and he nods.

“Breathtaking,” he agrees. He scans the shoreline, taking in the bustle that was quite nearly as bad as that in London. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to find Miranda if she’s -”

He stops, mouth gone suddenly dry, as his eyes scan the shore again. There, standing at the end of one of the piers, is his wife. She is plainly dressed, with her hair drawn back away from her face in a style he has never seen her wear, but it is definitely her, and with her -

“James - look,” he points out, and he sees James’ eyes follow his own and light on Miranda and the small, cloth-wrapped bundle she’s holding in her arms. As he watches, her attention turns from watching the harbor to the bundle, and he sees her incline her head slightly, a smile crossing her features as she brings her face down close.

“Damn it!” James says, clearly chagrined. “I told her I’d try to bring you home in time.” 

Thomas stares, his attention entirely fixed on her, and James tugs at his arm. 

“Come on,” he says. “She’ll - _they’ll_ be waiting for us.” A small grin spreads over his face at the changed word, and there’s an actual spring in his step as he calls to one of the men on the launch, ordering it to be held. Thomas can feel himself fairly bouncing with energy, and when the launch lands with a thump against the shore, he jumps out, making a beeline for Miranda. She spots him before he reaches her, and her face transforms, worry and anticipation replaced by abject relief.

“Thomas!” She calls his name, and the sound goes right through him, soothing something he hadn’t even known was hurting. He hurries to her, his arms wrapping around her, his mouth seeking hers. Her free hand wraps around the back of his neck, bringing him down closer to her, and they stand for several moments after they pull away, just drinking in each other’s presence.

“Miranda,” he finally breathes, and she lets out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Miranda - I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I should have listened. I should have -” He starts to babble an apology. He’s been such an idiot - has come so close to losing her forever, and he can’t quite find the words to express his gratitude for the persistence and cunning and brilliance that has brought him back to her. She silences him with another kiss, this time harder, more determined, and looks him straight in the eye, her brown eyes fierce. 

“The next time I ask you to let something be, you’ll listen to me,” she orders, and he nods.

“Yes. I swear it. Your word is law from this day forward.” She nods, and lets go of the back of his neck, allowing him to straighten.

“You look terrible,” she informs him tartly, concern underlying the remains of her anger, and he grimaces.

“You should have seen him when I found him,” James interjects, and she turns to him, eyes softening.

“James. It’s done, then?” He nods, and she closes her eyes for a moment, relief spreading over her visibly, the tension leaving her.

“Thank God,” she murmurs. “Thank _you_.” She reaches up to him and brings him in for a kiss, lingering and tender, the kind they haven’t shared since Thomas was taken from them, the elephant in the room now firmly banished by Thomas’ return. The baby in her arms seems to feel his mother’s relief, because he squirms and gurgles, and Miranda opens her eyes.

“Thomas,” she says, “James. Say hello to your son.” 

Thomas takes one look at the tiny bundle in Miranda’s arms and falls in love.

Miranda hands the child over to him and - he’s not alright. He’s so very not alright, still. The nightmares that have been plaguing him since he was first imprisoned are still very much a problem. He still finds his hands shaking, still startles at small things and has moments where he can see and taste and smell Bethlem, set off by a myriad of seemingly unpredictable triggers, leaving him frustrated and frightened and tired - oh, so very tired. The weeks leading up to his rescue have been a nightmare all their own, one that he is only now truly willing to believe is ended, and the entire ordeal has shaken him to his very marrow, causing him to question everything he had ever believed about his fellow men and yet, he looks at his son and thinks to himself that he might, just might, be alright in time. For the small person Miranda has just handed him, he might be able to pull through this - has to, in fact, will, regardless of what it takes. He can feel the corners of his mouth pulling upward in a smile that is wholly involuntary and entirely welcome, and he raises a hand to his son’s head, huge in comparison to the boy’s small fist.

“Does he have a name?” he asks Miranda, and she smiles, relief written plain on her face as well as fondness and joy at the sight of her husband, not only alive but holding their child.

“I thought I’d allow you to name him,” she answers, and Thomas feels a thrill run through him. He looks to James and sees the same look of wonder on his face as he realizes that the invitation is open to him as well and they look at each other, questioning.

“My grandfather’s name was Darby,” James ventures, somewhat tentatively, and Thomas nods.

“I have two brothers. One is too much like my father, but the other I’ll miss,” he says. “His name is William.” 

“William Darby, or Darby William?” Miranda wonders aloud.

“That depends on the surname,” James says. “Is he a Hamilton? A McGraw?” 

“Neither and both,” Miranda answers, “as we’re not sure.” 

“Why not Flint?” Thomas asks, and James shakes his head. 

“No. I won’t give that name to a child. It was meant for -” He stops short, and Thomas nods, understanding. 

“I’d prefer if he didn’t carry the Hamilton name, for obvious reasons,” Thomas says.

“And McGraw will only raise questions,” James acknowledges.

“There’s always Barlow,” Miranda suggests, and they look at each other. 

“Something of each of us,” Thomas says, and James nods, a smile spreading over his face.

“It’s only fair,” he acknowledges. “William Darby Barlow.” He looks at the newly christened child, and grins. “It’s a good name,” he says, and Miranda nods her approval.

“My mother would be pleased,” she says, and that decides it. Thomas turns his attention back to their son, and the smile on his face is wide enough to hurt.

“Hello, William,” he says, and the baby gurgles and waves a fist. “I think he likes it.” The baby squirms, and Thomas adjusts, his grip becoming slightly awkward. Little William, he thinks, is surprisingly strong for such a tiny thing, and it’s been a while since Thomas has been in the business of holding babies. 

“James,” he says. “I don’t suppose you’d like to hold him?” His arms are starting to shake a bit, actually - he’s still not recovered from Bethlem entirely, and he hasn’t had anything of significant weight to lift in quite some time. James, however, is looking at him with something akin to terror on his face suddenly, and Miranda, looking between them, raises a hand to her mouth, a giggle escaping.

“Look at the pair of you,” she says. “James - hold your son before Thomas drops him.” James swallows hard and moves forward, taking the squirming bundle out of Thomas’ grasp, looking as if someone has just proposed handing him a live explosive. 

“Support his head,” Thomas instructs. “He needs - There. Perfect.” The squirming has stopped entirely, and James is standing, baby held firmly in his arms, still looking terrified, while William looks up at him curiously, infant blue eyes studying his face. 

“I’m - there are things I should -” He tries, trailing off helplessly, and Thomas just laughs harder at the semi-disgruntled expression on his face. 

“I take it congratulations are in order.” The voice comes from behind them, and Thomas turns to find Gates standing nearby, his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, a smirk lifting one half of his mustache. James stands, mouth hanging open, and Gates chuckles. 

“Now there’s a sight. Yours or his?” James and Thomas look at each other, and Gates laughs.

“Just kidding. He’s the dead spit of you, Captain.” 

“You can’t possibly tell that,” James protests, and Gates snorts. 

“Yes, I can. Go on - I’ll cover for you until you get back. Congratulations, ma’am.” 

He leaves James looking thunderstruck, Thomas laughing, and Miranda looking at both of them fondly. She grabs hold of both their arms, pulling gently toward the beach.

“Come. Let’s go home.” 

**************************************  
_Six months later_ : 

He comes in late at night, the dust of the road still covering him, weary, but satisfied.

“Well, William, it’s done.” 

The words are hushed, sounding too loud in the still house. James is too tired to care, and to prove it, he sits down next to the baby’s crib, one hand removing his sword baldric to hang it over the back of the chair and the other moving to adjust the infant’s blanket. He reaches down and pulls his boots off, giving a sigh as he does so. The moonlight streaming in through the window shifts, and the baby moves, woken by the change in lighting and the sound of James’ voice.

“It’s finished,” he says. “No more pirating. No more fighting, and Captain Flint can officially go back to whatever abyss he came from. I’m done.” William shifts, a sort of questioning gurgle making its way out of his mouth as he regards his father curiously. 

“That’s right,” James confirms. “Everything’s been wrapped up. The crew are happy. Gates is taking over the captaincy, and I -” He yawns. “I’m ready to lie down and sleep for the next year or so. Christ knows I can afford to if I want.” He leans in closer, the ends of his untied hair swinging down into his face. He’s been leaving it loose when he can, lately, given that Thomas and Miranda both like to run their hands through it. Speaking of Thomas -

“Your other daddy,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, “is a very smart man. Without him, I don’t know where the hell I’d be but not here, getting ready to retire and live the life of Adam in the interior.” 

William swings one hand toward James, grasping hold of a hank of hair, and James grimaces and laughs simultaneously as he disentangles the child’s fingers and lets him grab hold of one finger instead.

“No hair pulling,” he scolds gently. “But you’re right. Your mother would have my head if she’d heard that last,” he acknowledges. “Good thing you can’t tell her.” William gives a happy, if somewhat loud, cry, and James shushes him.

“If we wake Miranda, she really will have my head,” he tells his son. “I suppose there’s no point in telling you to go back to sleep.” William squirms, hands and legs waving all at the same time, and James sighs. “Idiotic question to start with,” he mutters, feeling the pull of bed but knowing that he started this. “Right. Come on - let’s see what the pantry has to offer.” He picks up the child, heading for the pantry, bouncing him up and down all the while. “I wonder if Miranda’s made any apple tarts lately. It’s worth a look....”

***************************************  
“He thinks we don’t know.” 

“Shh!” 

Miranda’s giggle is quickly muffled by her hand, and she stands, shoulders shaking with mirth, as she watches James putter around the kitchen, baby held in one arm and the remains of one of her pastries in the other, his mouth full for the moment. 

“It’s too precious,” she manages to get out, her voice barely a whisper. “Look at them!” 

Thomas turns, and she can see the fond smile on his face even in the darkened hallway. 

“It’s good to have him back,” he acknowledges. 

“And this time,” James says, raising his voice a fraction, “I intend to stay. You two aren’t particularly quiet, you know.” 

Thomas laughs quietly and comes forward, planting a kiss on James’ cheek, with Miranda not far behind him to do the same on the other. 

“Welcome home,” he says, and James looks sheepish. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. “It’s been a long day - I’d intended to come to bed after I got this one back to sleep.” 

“You seem to have succeeded,” Miranda says. “I’d hoped to be able to welcome you back properly, but this will have to do.” 

“Any welcome involving apple tarts is perfect,” James answers, and she laughs. 

“He has a point,” Thomas agrees. “Are there any left?” 

“Not at this hour of the night, there aren’t,” Miranda answers. “Really, James - I’m very glad to see you, but what on Earth were you thinking riding so late?” 

“I was thinking that I haven’t slept in my own bed in six months,” James answers. His tone softens, as do his eyes, and he shifts his grip on his sleeping son. “I missed you,” he admits, and Thomas smiles.

“We’ve missed you too. Come to bed?” 

James nods.

“Let me put William back in his crib and then I’ll be in,” he promises. He follows Thomas down the hall and quietly, gently, lays William back in his crib, tucking him in.

“William Barlow,” he muses, standing next to the crib. “I suppose I should just change my name. They’d match, that way.” 

“You’ve quite enough names without adding another, James McGraw,” Thomas says from behind him, and the name sends a chill down James’ spine. There had been too many days when he hadn’t been sure he’d ever hear that name again, and now - now it’s his again. 

“Say that again,” he invites, and Thomas comes closer, whispering in his ear. 

“James McGraw,” he whispers, and the sound goes straight through James, a shiver followed by the heat of arousal.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, eyes closing. “I don’t want any other.” Thomas grins against his ear. 

“How about Love?” he questions. “Or Darling? Or -” 

“How about,” James says, his voice a low rumble, “we stop talking and go to bed?” Thomas grins and turns without another word, beckoning over his shoulder and he goes, bare feet padding over the floor boards, and closes the bedroom door behind himself with a gentle thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all of it! Hope James doesn't come across as too OOC in this chapter. I realize it's a bit out of the norm for him to be anything less than absolutely focused on Nassau as his goal, but here he's never truly lost Thomas. He's had his vengeance for what Alfred did to them, and there's a small person to consider, too. If you like you can imagine that Thomas has been declared the Earl and they're currently working toward doing what he wanted now that Alfred is dead.
> 
> The lovely Scrapbullet has written a fic that was inspired by this one. If you like this, I implore you, go read it. It's truly amazing and so, so feel-good.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [hold on to your heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762581) by [scrapbullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet)




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